


1000 Lies and A Good Disguise

by Vyola



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Guardian Angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyola/pseuds/Vyola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine made morning after pancakes for no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1000 Lies and A Good Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ivy03

 

 

John Constantine made morning after pancakes for no one.

Politeness, off-hand kindness, the little grace notes of interaction -- not exactly the hallmarks of John's dealings with other people on a good day. And Chas didn't exactly fit John's definition of people anymore.

* * *

He'd been surprised when his key turned and the apartment door opened at his touch. John's wards were some of the most powerful he'd ever touched, even when restricted by a mortal body. Now, though, he could see them gleam, layer upon layer, carved in the wood, carved in the air, _sed libera nos a malo_. But nothing against him, nothing against angels.

Chas smirked. Served John right, not changing the locks. Who knew what kind of strangers he might end up entertaining?

He slipped inside, silently closing the door behind him. The shutters were closed against the early dawn, tiny slices of light barely making a dent in the darkness to sketch pale lines on the wall.

An open pack of gum was valiantly attempting to fill the gap in Contantine's usual still life -- bottle, tumbler, nicotine -- sitting lonely on the table. 

In the bed at the far end, John stirred then fell still again. Chas ventured no farther than the bathroom. Despite the bare pipes sticking up in the corner, there was little to be seen of the chaos left in the wake of Angela's crossing. Just a few more dings in the tile, dents in the wood.

Back to the refrigerator, which yielded a few items, the age of which Chas did not question. The cabinet, a few more. The mixing and blending reminded him of forging those last holy rounds at Papa Midnite's, those last hours of his mortal life.

The divine normally sat easily, confined and bound by his human mind and heart and body, a distant whisper that informed his path without guiding him directly. He _was_ Chas Kramer. But the thinning barrier between the planes attenuated _Chas_ , bleeding the divine into the human. He knew that Midnite suspected the truth, suddenly _saw_ , when he spoke of the Crosses of Isteria. Knew that John had wondered, then ignored, seeing only the form _Robin Tonto apprentice_ before him. 

And Chas had been glad that John didn't see him. How else could he help John, be there at his shoulder, fighting alongside him? How else could he _be_ with John? 

And it had been joy and fear and duty and love all tied together striding through the abandoned halls of Ravenscar, blessing the water, blowing away the last demon over John's shoulder. Being useful, doing good, serving God and John and mankind. He'd been unable to contain himself after the seemingly successful exorcism of Mammon, the sheer relief and happiness of getting it done, getting it right, only expressible by leaning over and giving his best Constantine impression.

And then the hammer of Gabriel coming down on him, feeling like the wrath of God Himself in the speed and power but so dark and oily and tainted that Chas could only shudder out his last breaths in bewilderment. Nothing like what he'd studied for John, the only way he could access the knowledge held separate from him. Nothing like the books.

He couldn't even warn John, the weakness of the body binding him even as his soul was set free. Couldn't tell John what was suddenly clear before him, Gabriel's unholy, insane plot, usurping God's ineffable plan, perverting His love for mankind. Could only pray that John would survive somehow. Could only hope that his death might serve His will. Could only wonder if that could be Gabriel's final Fall, the seal of fate. Striking down another angel. Like unto Lucifer's army, civil war shaking Heaven itself. The earth a victim of Gabriel's pride, the worst sin of all.

Darkenss, then light. Cold, then warmth. God's love all around him. And John's voice, telling him he'd done good.

Chas reached into his pocket, fingers tracing the soft edges of engraved loops and curves. John's lighter, left at his grave. He pulled it out and flicked it open. The flame glowed in the dim apartment. He lit the stove then closed the lighter and carefully set it on the sink.

He busied himself at the stove, the motions of his hands automatic as he pondered the memory of the flame. John had been like that, pale and flickering and most visible only in the dark. But now --

But now, he blazed like the sun, the shadows within and without banished. Clean and reborn and shining so brightly. No longer damned but gifted with free will and choice, God's gifts to man.

How could Chas leave John now? How could he not be at John's side, guard his back, stand at his shoulder? No angel had been there on that terrible day twenty years before. Chas was determined that John would not be left alone this time, would not struggle against darkness and despair without a word of courage and support.

Not that John would accept such with good grace. He'd barely acknowledged Chas before. An angel could expect even less. Heaven and Hell had both battered themselves upon the rock of John Constantine's bullheaded stubbornness. But Chas was already inside John's considerable defenses, would not be shaken, would be inexorable as the sea crashing against that rock and just as implacable.

He wasn't going to let John send him away.

Besides, he finally had an invite from Papa Midnite and there was no way he wasn't going to take the man up on the offer.

* * *

A few feet away, John awoke, pushing the bedclothes aside and stumbling to his feet. He reached out, opening the shutters, and Chas could feel the exact moment John realized that he wasn't alone.

He squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of ethereal wings flare and settle in the bright light of day. He turned, watched John take him in head to toe, slouched cap to scuffed sneakers, then glance at the lighter on the edge of the sink.

John's eyes followed it as Chas picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. Then he picked up a plate and held it out in front of him.

"Good morning, John. Pancakes?" 

 


End file.
